Immoral
by Raspberrih
Summary: What is morality but a word? TMR/various, indecent acts, slash, multi, etc. Ch01: Riddle/Slughorn, pedophilia Ch02: Riddle/Abraxas, murder, cannibalism
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a prologue, of sorts. The next chapter should be longer, but I'm not sure when it'll be up. I procrastinate.**

**Important note: There is a _reason_ for the M rating. This fic is going to contain a lot more things than simple pedophilia and the selling of one's body (for information). Do not read if you are squicked. Do not read at work. Do not read in school.**

** This fic also revolves around immoral things. Warning! Also desecrates the bible. Warning again!**

* * *

**..**

**..**

**And the serpent said to the woman: No, you shall not die the death.**

**Genesis 3:4**

**..**

**..**

* * *

He dreamed of great things, of golden statues and songs of praise. He dreamed of justice, of guidance, of fairness and equality. He dreamed of repayment.

He does not dream any more. He does not sleep any more. Instead, he works late into the night, feverishly researching, desperately compiling. For, one night, he dreamt of Death.

Oh, what horrors did the single paltry word contain, to turn his very bones cold with fright, to creep up behind him and ghost along his spine? What unimaginable depravities did it entail, to remove the comforts of sleep from him for ever more?

And so he writes, and reads, seeking escape from the inevitable darkness waiting for him, because how _tragic_ it would be, to have his life snatched away from him on a passing whim, some indefinable fantasy? Why, if the ceiling were to fall upon him this exact instant – he glances up, but the stones remain as firm as ever – why, if that indeed happened, then he would be gone, banished from the mortal plane, sent to the fiery Hell that surely awaits him. Gone – just like that!

_It must not happen_, he thinks._ I must prevent that from happening_. So firm was his conviction that it took the place of food and drink, and companionship, and the thrice-damned sleep that taunts him with visions of Death; sustaining him long after he would have fallen unconscious from exhaustion – until finally, he exclaims, proclaiming his victory over Death itself.

That night, he returns his attentions to the more mundane tasks – charming his teachers, who have grown bold without his constant, subtle training; reassuring his allies, who have become cold with his inattention; disciplining his followers, with regal gestures and haughty words, until they once again become the pitiful reliant creatures that they had been before his sudden obsession with immortality.

In particular, he lavishes Professor Horace Slughorn and Abraxas Malfoy with well-chosen, complimentary words.

_Oh, Professor_, he might say,_ that's ingenious, it really is_.

Or, to Abraxas,_ I value your contributions, my loyal friend_.

And Slughorn would smile, as brightly and naively as a child, and send more invites to his parties, while Abraxas would smirk, nod, and accept it wordlessly.

His plans are moving along, slowly, exactly as he means them to. Progressing silently and insidiously, slithering into every corner of his victims' minds, holding them captive until he sees fit to release them – not any time in the near future, he supposes, as they have multiple uses, all of which can function as a part, without much need for the whole.

Then one day he approaches Slughorn, under the pretext of extra study projects.

It is a Friday, and Potions is the last class of the day. They stand alone in the dungeons, amidst the various scents of the potions that Slughorn always has on hand – he breathes in appreciatively, noting the distinctive smell of Felix Felicis even though it remains unseen as of yet.

"Professor, I have some questions," he says hesitantly, opening his eyes a little wider than usual. Dark and alluring, those eyes are, his many lovers have told him over and over again – and again, when he obliviates them.

"Yes, Tom?" Slughorn walks over, obscenely happy about his presence. "Some extra-curriculum questions, no doubt; you are much too clever to need any help with normal class work."

"Professor," he says again, fingers brushing through his hair – naturally attractive, his admirers remind him day after day; soft and silky. "I'm afraid that it's a rather sensitive topic… Others might be offended, perhaps, though it is out of a purely intellectual curiosity that I ask this… Professor, you are the only one who can help me with this question – " He cuts himself off, looking directly into Slughorn's eyes and projecting a perfect, flawless image of an innocent schoolboy – but practice makes perfect, and he has been practising for as long as he can remember.

Slughorn's eyes widen too, mimicking his own, before the professor takes out his wand and casts a few primary privacy charms, all of which any Slytherin should know. _He_, however, has cast his own spells, a veritable arsenal of high-level spells ranging from the obscuring of vision to the prevention of eavesdropping, to immunity from long-distance scrying, to secrecy rituals.

"Ask away, Tom," Slughorns tells him, now that the charms have been cast, though they have been secure ever since they were alone. "I shall answer you to the best of my knowledge," he says, his voice noticeably lower and much more excited.

And _he_, the immoral, tempting student – he bites at his bottom lip, feigning ignorance of the seduction – he opens his mouths, and asks the well-practiced words, delighting in the wanton desire he finds in his teacher's eyes.

Leaning forwards, he asks: "Professor, what do you know – about horcruxes?"

As expected, the man starts, gasps, and hurriedly fortifies the charms, adding more than ten new ones, all of which a _good_ Slytherin should know (though there are precious few of those now).

"Dear boy – ! Why, what has possessed you to ask about such a topic? – This is a taboo, a taboo of the highest order! Do not ask me again – do not ask anyone else – and do not plead with me to divulge the secrets that, to my eternal , unending shame, resides within my mind!" Slughorn backs away, apprehension and fear clearly visible on his face now, and prepares to end the charms that he has put up.

"Professor – wait, Professor!" He reaches out, grasps the older man's arm, and leans in closer than he ever has before, staring with a strange intensity into those eyes made attractive by age where they would normally have been unattractive.

"Professor," he repeats, earnest and sincere, "Sir, please, I need to know! It eats away at me at night, this lack of knowledge! You must understand, you must have felt it before! This hunger for information, ceaseless and damning! You must tell me, Professor, or I fear that I shall perish!"

They pause, face to face, and Slughorn's breathing comes fast and shallow, as though it had been _him_ begging for answer, _him_ driven to madness with the lack of answers. He sees, reflected in his young student's eyes, his own misspent youth, wasted and utterly meaningless – and he sees in a flash of clarity how this young boy in front of him is inherently, fundamentally different from himself – and he relents.

He relents, but not much.

"If I do," he whispers, trembling with the weight of the crime that he has committed himself to, in his mind, "If I do tell you, then – what will you give me in return?"

_He_ freezes, though he has already known that such a thing would happen. Slughorn is a Slytherin, after all, and Slytherins are nothing if not self-serving to the last; selfish and indulgent and – well, he supposes, he should know, he himself is the penultimate Sytherin.

He freezes, he admits, but it is not true shock that holds him in place, but a kind of diluted, calculated surprise; he freezes not because he is shocked at the lengths that Slughorn would go to in order to fulfill his desires, but in an attempt to convince himself that he is actually considering the notion, the idea – but he knows full well that he is willing to sacrifice anything for that small morsel of sin (body, wealth, soul); the portion of knowledge that the serpent offered to Eve in the form of a perfect, gleaming apple –

– and the sounds of the orphanage comes back to him: soft, desperate chants and prayers that do nothing but provide a cruel, false hope; cries for _God_, cries for _salvation_, cries for _anything_ at all –

– and he nods, agreeing with little fuss to the immoral acts that will surely commence (unspeakable, perverse things, they are – and he is an unspeakably perverse creation).

"Anything," he tells his teacher, and the teacher sees his student's eyes soften, strangely understanding and forgiving now. "Anything you ask of me, Professor Slughorn."

And the old man lifts his hand, moves towards the fallen angel in front of him, and touches the smooth pale skin of the angel's face – tenderly, lovingly, as if worshipping a mortal god. "Tom, oh Tom," he says, dreamy and half-awake, seemingly unsure if this is indeed real.

And the angel (_he smiles; angel he is not, though perhaps a devil masquerading as an angel might suffice as a description_) reciprocates, holding those calloused, unworthy hands in his own perfect fingers. And the angel allows the man to touch, feel, study, explore; he allows all of that and more, obligingly bending down when the mortal pulls him down for a kiss (_for he is slim, but tall – taller than his professor, at the very least_), pressing those cracked lips against the other's face.

"Tom," he cries in bliss. "Tom, oh, Tom! I must confess – I do swear, Tom, as forbidden as it is – that I love you!"

The angel only smiles in reply (_a dry, sardonic smile, he knows, but Slughorn is too lost to notice anything_) and how sweet that smile is! They match kiss with kiss, caress with caress, and with each article of clothing that he removes from the quiet angel, the angel removes from him in turn.

Until at last they stand bare and exposed, shivering in the coldness - or at least Slughorn does, for it is beneath angels to feel those earthly physical discomforts (_the student pities the man, he does not understand that it the one in front of him has suffered far worse and that this mere wind is nothing in comparison_) as mortal men do.

He pauses. "Tom," he says, "You are sure, then, that you are willing – "

And the angel yet again refrains from answering, instead lying down upon the table, pushing potions ingredients out of the way with a single swift movement and smiling beguilingly at the dazed potions professor – open and inviting, as if waiting for someone to ravish him thoroughly – and he sees, quite obviously, that the older man is plainly obsessed with him.

"Tom," Slughorn says, and his voice is trembling now, with anticipation and a distinct touch of desire, "Is this – your first time – ?"

The one that he calls "Tom" nods, hisses a soft, trailing "Yes…", and looks at him with half-lidded eyes. (_It is a lie; everything is a lie; there is nothing that he would ever tell the truth about; and the man disgusts him with his naiveté._)

"Good," Slughorn whispers uncertainly, feeling rather as though it would be blasphemy to speak loudly. "I would – I have dreamed of being the first – "

Saying thus, he reaches out again, placing his – _unworthy, unworthy!_ – hands on the tempting flesh, stroking, petting – and his angel groans, flushed with pleasure, (_though what he does not know is that the angel scorns him, scoffs at his frankly subpar techniques_); that is when he starts the second phase, probing and pushing gently at places that his angel has evidently never explored before, much less with another (_what does _he_ know, the angel thinks darkly; healing potions and charms are prerequisites for entering the house of snakes – and if one did not know them at the beginning, then one quickly learned them lest their injuries go unhealed_).

Finally, the angel reaches up and says hesitantly, in a bracing tone, "I'm ready" – that is when Slughorn enters him with a cry, eyes closing in unadulterated pleasure, fingers tightening subconsciously in an attempt to anchor himself; lost to the world, he does not notice that the angel's eyes are squeezed shut in pain instead of the unabashed joy that he himself feels.

Afterwards, when he finds release in the body steeped fully in sin (_though he is yet ignorant of that fact_) and the student wraps his arms around his waist, lifting himself up to peck at the older man's lips again, he reluctantly begins to speak of the horcruxes –_ thrice-damned horcruxes, the bane of his existence!_ – and he speaks of the inherent evilness of them, the blatant immorality, the eternal torment that one would inevitably experience if one should use them – though _he_ would not know, thank God, _he_ has never tried it himself, he has never killed.

And his lovely angel pats him soothingly, murmuring comforting words in his velvet-smooth voice, assuring his teacher once again of his purely intellectual curiosity – a _virtuous_, simple need for knowledge.

Slughorn dresses himself again, admiring the ethereal paleness of his young student's body, and seeks to extract one last reassurance from him as he turns to leave the room: "This will stay between us only – Tom?" Anxious, insecure.

"Yes, Professor Slughorn," comes the answer. "_Obliviate_."

* * *

******Not so important note: This is a fic about Tom Riddle. Except not. He never refers to himself as Tom Riddle in the narrative, which makes for interesting POV switches, but also results in confused readers. Please tell me if it's incomprehensible. Or if there are mistakes.**

*******Also thanks to the helpful anon. I don't usually finish anything, so I have no idea about where to put stuff.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yay chapter two! Features a quote from the bible, and said quote being twisted and perverted by a young Tom Riddle. Cannibalism! Warning! Also death of minor characters, violent death, touching and mutilating dead bodies (we're not at necrophilia yet, though, so don't worry). Also involves self-cannibalism, though Abraxas doesn't know yet. **

***Assumption: Abraxas Malfoy is in the same year as Tom Riddle.**

* * *

_**..**_

_**..**_

_**And when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.**_

_**1 Corinthians 11:24**_

_**..**_

_**..**_

* * *

It is a most unusual custom for the Wizarding kind – cannibalism, as an act of humans devouring other humans, is not something practised by wizards in general. They have wands; they have magic; food is plentiful, for although they cannot create food, they can help harvests greatly with spells. And thus he thinks –_ it is a most unusual custom, and I am a most unusual wizard_.

The first raid of the Death Eaters is _not_, empathetically, the first time he urges his followers to consume human flesh, though that instance is however the most famous and revered. No, he has been doing it for years, beginning with the young pair of twins back in the hated orphanage: three years younger than himself, frail and pretty with their trailing blonde hair and colourless eyes.

Curiosity, for once, is the driving force behind his actions, instead of the bright, brilliant anger that most certainly is addictive. Curiosity; a morbid fascination with their pale pink lips; he watches them each day as they eat, chew, swallow.

They had been six, and him nine, when he first thinks of them as separate beings. Of course, surely, they are two; yet to his young mind, they are so alike that they cannot be anything but one in the same. It is on his ninth birthday that the thought occurs; it is on his ninth birthday that he leads the little girl far away from her sleeping brother and kills her by repeatedly bashing her head upon the stone-paved ground.

Messy – needlessly messy, for by then he has learned to kill without leaving traces – but he needs it, needs the relief, the hypnotizing red, the warmth, the cold, the emotion. He gasps; his breathing disjointed and as messy as the tiny corpse underneath him, his smooth fingers still frozen into stillness on the girl's shoulders. He shakes; his body trembling with the energy that this unholy act takes out of him, both physical and mental.

She is dead; the deed is done. His peace of mind is restored (and perversely, he remembers the older boys who bully the twins, and cannot help but feel a little _proud_ of what he has done: he has _freed_ her, freed her from her mortal body and from the torment of the bullies – he is proud, so _proud_; and he is aware that this pride is perverse).

But she is dead, so that is that.

He pulls the corpse behind him on the way back to the orphanage, stopping when he reaches the church in front of the orphanage, being careful to avoid the wary villagers by keeping to the dirty alleys behind the actual streets. There he steals the local butcher's knife, and tries his hand at butchering for the first time.

He manages – not very well, but he manages – and the corpse is soon turned into mush and blood, the majority of which drains away into the corners where it would soon be no more distinguishable than one stone from another. He removes an eyeball, frowning in distaste as the wet appendage bends and yields to the shape of his fingers – it is so flimsy and _soft_, so _vulnerable_ (a delicacy, he thinks, he shall persuade others to eat them by telling them that it is a rare delicacy! – but it is true, is it not? – there are only two per person).

He removes it and stores it away in his pocket, walking away without any indication that he has just killed an innocent – _there are no innocents, none! men are born wicked _– and his face even bears a gentle smile.

He is nine when the thought occurs to him that twins are separate beings, and he is nine when he wonders what it would be like for one half to consume the other half. Undoubtedly, they are separate; yet it is equally indisputable that they are halves, incomplete and flawed without the other. If one half is killed, yet absorbed by the other half – _complete? incomplete?_ – would it still be a half or one whole?

His musing turns into actions – and those actions are of the deepest sin, highly condemned, the sort of foul evil that no child should ever commit – yet he does, with the same gentle smile on his pale, skinny face. He offers the twin the eye, saying thus: "Isabelle has gone on; take this and eat; she wishes for you to do this, so as to remember her."

He is more than aware that those immoral words echo the holy Bible. That is what colours his smile – the _blasphemous_ words, _dear_ _God_, desecration of the Bible, the _rejection_ of _salvation_!

When the twin starts crying, he does not back down or comfort him – his hand stays in that position, holding the round and partially shrivelled eyeball loosely between his fingers, like a mockery of a peace offering – (and in what way is it _not_ a peace offering? This is the last of his sister, a most sacred object, a most potent message: I am dead, and you can join me, if you so wish).

Crying.

The act of crying requires tears, tears that the young twin has in abundance, tears that _he_ watches with greedy, unblinking brown eyes, analysing the way that the salt water falls and the way that the twin wipes at them. Fascinating – fascinating! He is almost breathless with fascination.

Still his hand stays, unmoving and insistent, holding out the eye – the twin accepts it in due time, shivering and sniffling. Those small fingers shake as they close around the eye, but they successfully bring it back to the twin, who examines it with wide, shocked eyes.

"It's suppertime," he reminds the twin quietly. Then he turns and strides away, walking smoothly into the shadows cast by the lamps. The twin is left alone in the hallway.

He would know when the flesh has been eaten – of course he would know! He is, after all, the only one watching for the tell-tale signs of suppressed distress, the delicious whispers of pain as the twin consumes his own sister (_his words have been spun with allure, convincing and persuasive and impossible to resist_) – and he laughs! Oh, he laughs, with disdain, looking down upon the rest of the dirty, filthy world –

– he is dirty and filthy _himself_; he has been dirtied, he has been covered with mundane human _filth_ –

– _but he has risen above them all_! Lower creatures, they are, feeding on each other like mindless animals! He is better than that, he _must be_!

He laughs. The twin eats, chews, swallows, _hurts_.

He laughs.

That is the first, but it is not the last.

The second time is with _Abraxas_, dear Abraxas who with his ethereal gold-blonde hair reminds him so much of the pitiful pair of twins. He is Pureblood – pure blooded, _pure_! And _he_ – _he_ is once again useless, powerless, tainted, _dirty and filthy_! He cannot stand it; he _will_ not, _should not_!

_Inferior_? Half-blood he may be, but inferior he is not! No, it is not _he_ who is inferior; it is _Abraxas_, with his empty head full of pointless Malfoy pride; it is _Abraxas_, who deserves to be mocked and debased; it is _Abraxas_, who should serve _him_ instead! Inferior? Hah!

_A deep, dark magic_, he whispers to dear Abraxas who shares his bed at times. _Do you not know? An ancient ritual._.. And he smiles, his dark, knowing eyes beckoning at the lovestruck fool who pretends not be lovestruck – such a weak illusion! It comes undone each night when he groans and begs! – and the lovestruck fool follows him with nary a protest...

_Come, follow, I shall show you_...

Abraxas Malfoy follows obediently, pressing his lithe body close to his Lord's, blinking his large, curious eyes as his lord leads him along corridors and down flights of stairs – his Lord smirks, and turns it into a falsely innocent smile – _we are nearly there, Abraxas_, he whispers, his voice trembling with excitement (_though not of the variety that Abraxas thinks it to be_).

_Open_, he hisses, slyly watching Abraxas' eyes glaze over with desire at the Parseltongue; the language of snakes is naturally sensual, naturally addictive and especially desirable to Slytherins. _Come, Abraxas_, he repeats, and the pretty blonde doll trials after him, one hand brushing against his robes like an insecure child seeking comfort from a parent – and how _wrong_ it was, to have a sexual relationship with one's father figure; and all the more he laughs, he laughs at how immoral, how depraved, how _damned_ everything is – _Abraxassssss_, he says in Parseltongue, just to see how his favourite blonde struggles against his arousal.

Oh, he laughs, he laughs all the time at those pitiful fools who fancy themselves above others – he would know, he thinks, the view is clearest from the very bottom of the pyramid and he has been at the bottom before – _he is still at the bottom_.

His smile slides off his face as easily as it appears. "Come, Abraxas," he says brusquely, no longer in the mood for subtle teasing and seduction. His blonde tenses, glancing around for the source of his displeasure, but there is nothing to be seen; his displeasure lies with himself and his own traitorous thoughts.

They walk down into the tunnels, and Abraxas removes his hand from his robes, suddenly shivering in the oddly cold air. "My Lord?" he chances, grey eyes locked onto his Lord's wand hand.

"You will see, Abraxas, now keep silent," comes the curt answer. _Open_, he hisses again, scowling at the inanimate serpent. He strides into the main chamber, stopping in front of a still, unmoving body. It is a male, slim, with light brown hair. Abraxas does not understand; his heartbeat is abnormally loud, abnormally _painful _– he is_ nervous_!

"A severing hex, Abraxas. At his right hand. The thumb." Cold and clinical, his voice makes Abaraxas nervous – is the boy dead, or is he not? Dead? Alive? No matter; he points his wand at the body, murmurs a _diffindo_, and looks up at his Lord again.

"Very good," he says to Abraxas absentmindedly, slender fingers twirling a long silver knife – _where had that comes from? _Abraxas tries not to panic; panic is akin to suicide sometimes, when the Lord is in one of his moods, and Malfoys do not commit suicide –

"Hm," his Lord says – and Abraxas notes that his fingers have stilled, holding the knife in a position suited to stabbing – and he stabs the body.

Abraxas feels the impact deep in his stomach, staring at the blood flowing from the body (_dead? alive?_), but his Lord does not. His Lord blinks sedately, leisurely, observing the dark red blood _– dead or alive?_ – and speaks to him again.

"Abraxas," and this time his voice is deep and smooth, soothed by the blood, "Come here, my Abraxas; look."

Entranced once more by words, he takes one step forward, then two, then three, until he is leaning over the body – _corpse, by now, surely_ – his long blonde hair stained red at the ends. His Lord places a hand on his back, presses his body to his, tilts his head and whispers in his ear, "_Incendio_."

"_Incendio_," he echoes, the word taking on a sensual edge between the silence of the huge chamber and his Lord's warm body.

"_Diffindo_." It is almost a hiss, this time, bordering on Parseltongue.

He swallows. "_Diffindo_," his hand guided by his Lord, "_diffindo, diffindo_."

"_Now eat, and drink_..."_ this is my body, which is given for you, do this in remembrance of me_, his Lord's lips move, mouthing the familiar prayers from years ago. Then he sneers; Gods are for foolish men, lesser mortals, _Lord Voldemort has no need for Gods_.

His gaze returns to the enthralled Malfoy, mockery hidden within the dark brown irises. "_Take this and eat, Abraxas Malfoy_," his words twisted and corrupted, and his Malfoy's pulse comes fast and erratically, those grey pupils diluting and contracting unpredictably – beautiful, so beautiful – "_Your Lord commands you_."

He leans over his Malfoy – one hand guiding the wand and the other around the blonde's slim waist – forcing the blonde's body to bend along with his own, and reaches down to grasp the severed thumb. Dipping it into the pool of still-warm body, he straightens and offers it to his loyal follower, a benign smile hovering on his face.

"_This is forgiveness, a second chance, a new beginning_," he intones solemnly, drawing a thin line on Abraxas' right cheek, "_Open yourself to your Lord and accept this offering_." The thumb finds its way to half-parted lips, and as a tongue darts out to wet them, he pushes it in past the teeth – forceful yet gentle, understated power evident in the simple action.

_And as he has vowed, so he follows; Abraxas Malfoy obeys, biting down and looking into his Lord's amused eyes with a rare vacantness. _

"_Mine,_" Lord Voldemort hisses cruelly, "_every bit of you belongs to me – your body, soul, devotion._"

_Yes,_ Abraxas tries to say, but it slips away soundlessly as he eats, chews, swallows, _hurts_. The flesh is difficult to cut, and he almost asks for a knife _– a silver Malfoy knife_, he thinks, _family heirlooms from generations ago _– but one look at his Master silences him. He is not allowed. So he nods, eyes half-lidded, and succumbs to his Master's wishes.

"_You will serve me, and you will never betray me..."_

_My Lord, I would never, _he tries to say again, but his Lord and Master only jams the thumb further down his throat. He chokes, splutters, the raw and sensitive lining irritated by the rough skin, and for a moment he ceases to think, ceases to breathe, ceases...

"_Perhaps something of a higher quality,_" he hears, the words soft and intimate, and that is all the warning he has before there is a sharp, slicing pain on his left inner thigh – when had he shed his robe? When had his Lord begun touching him? His fingers – he cannot feel those comforting fingers – he cannot feel his Lord, he does not know where his Lord is – _Master_, he tries to beg, but all that he hears is a strangled whisper –

"_Shhh, Abraxas, calm_."

And he does, in-out-in-out air, his Master's hand familiar and welcome on his bare back.

"_Shhh, Abraxas," _he hears, and there is something being pushed against his lips, more gently than before; something soft and pliable and warm.

"_Abraxasssss..." _the sibilant hiss leaves him trembling with desire – or was it fear? – and he opens his mouth to take it in, whatever it is; he does not mind, so long as his Master is happy.

"_Yesss, Abraxasss, I was pleased with your behaviour..." _Had he spoken aloud? It matters not.

"_Yesss_, _Abaraxasss_..."

"... _Abraxassss_..."

It is dark, but it should not be, for was the chamber not filled with candles...?

* * *

**A/N: Here we see that Tom Riddle finally starts identifying himself as Voldemort. He exhibits some traits which may or may not be important later on: possessiveness, hunger for power, the subtle ability to toy with others' minds. Also he has some problems and issues, most of which he isn't willing to face.**

***Age: they are both 16.**


End file.
